The Gardener
by Sadistic Shadow
Summary: Goodness is silent. Diplomacy is dead.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Being that this is called fanfiction, I do not own the characters or locale in question.

The pistol dangled haphazardly from his trigger finger. Great globs of angry red covered the ground around the still-twitching body, mingling with chunks of bone and a strange gray substance.

A member of the vanguard belched loudly, in an effort to keep down his gorge. The whole area radiated thick with a putrid smell.

Iosif kept his gaze trained on the horizon; light from the encroaching dawn cast a ruddy haze over the surrounding area, lending a surreal quality to the courtyard and all its present occupants.

"The body," he said, after a time. His accent was thick— cultured and foreign, like the road of luminous yellow brick. "Take it away."

_The dictator was not a king, but a god— ironclad in all his pagan glory. Basking in the subservience of a nation broken under the weight of his own, heavy hand. Loyal to their dying breath, they toil away without protest. What does he care, for the countless lives he has damned?_

_Children quake as they're sent to the slaughter. Bred in fear, they have but one choice in life: do or die. To prostrate on bended knee before the man who has stolen their livelihood, or be wiped from the records entirely. It is a well-known fact that history is only ever written by the winners._

_Population control, they called it. She saw it as a holy war. "If you're not for me, you're against me." Everyone's a sinner before the eyes of the Lord._

_What a merciful man, then, to take charge of those lost sheep and bring them back into his fold. To feed them, to clothe them, to put a roof up over their heads. To give up one's soul for the sake of a pension; a trifle payment for His Majesty's favor. _

_This was to say nothing of the thousands who lay dying in their hospital beds. For what use was there in curing the sick? Not when there were soldiers waiting to be fed._

_We regret to inform you that your daughter will not make it through the night._

_And there isn't anything you can do about it, doctor?_

_I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're on a strict budget here. We can't break it for just anyone, you know. What would become of our paychecks? Why, we might be forced to forego our morning coffee, and that simply wouldn't do._


	2. Chapter the First

Frexspar sloshed through the streets, chin tucked to his chest, eyes trained on the ground. The day was uncommonly cold, in part due to the miserable weather, in part due to the season itself. He was soaked to the bone; no part of him remained untouched. His clothes were spattered with mud, and he could already feel it beginning to cake in his thick, brown hair.

Hands, jammed deep into his jacket pockets, were filthy in their own right— coated in a heavy grease, black and oily, that seeped into every pore it could find and oozed up underneath his fingernails.

The ride home had been positively grueling. The fierce storm had risen up out of nowhere, an unmerciful gale that had battered about the humble carriage as if it had been scarcely more than a child's plaything. In between changing the axels, he'd been left to cling to the cargo railing, praying he wouldn't tip out and into the passing gully.

A violent shudder racked his body, even as the rain quickened in its descent. He hastened his stride, eager to take shelter. A few more steps brought him onto the front porch. It was there he paused, to catch his breath, before raising a shaking hand to the heavy door and pushing his way inside.

Elphaba fixed him with a beady-eyed stare as he passed, observing his pasty-faced countenance with marked disinterest.

"Fabala," he tiredly implored, shedding his coat and sinking down before the fire. "Where's your mother?"

"Kitchen," she croaked, wiggling an impertinent toe.

"Now, now, ducky," Nanny chided, bustling in from the side door. "Don't act so sullen. Supper's coming soon enough." She spared Frex an appraising look. "Well aren't you a sight."

"Rough weather," he gasped, loosening his collar with evident relief. "_Terrible_ weather."

"Ain't it, though?" she agreed, sliding socks onto Elphaba's bare feet, to ward off the chill. "Been like this for days, now."

"Frex?" Melena's voice interrupted from the next room. "Frex, is that you?"

"Yes, darling."

She stood before the open hearth, wooden ladle in hand. The fire cast a soft glow on her skin, illuminating her swollen belly.

"How's baby?" he inquired, crossing the rug and making as if to kiss her. Mercifully, she allowed the contact— albeit with an upturned nose.

"Oh, as well as can be expected." A protective arm lay draped atop the protuberance, cradling its bulky rotundity.

There came a sudden knock at the door— loud, and forceful. "Open up! State police!"

Melena gave a start. "Oh, Frex!" she wailed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You promised you wouldn't!"

"Now, dear! It wasn't as if— !" Eyes bulging, he could do little more than look back and forth between her and the door. "We'll talk later," he quickly decided, and hurried to answer the summons.

There were at least half a dozen of them, he noticed, stationed around the perimeter— like a pack of wolves in caps and shining brass.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Leather accoutrements glistened in the dimming twilight. A pair of burly men broke rank to speak with him. "Brother Frexspar?"

"_Brother_ Frexspar. We've received warrant for your arrest."


End file.
